Week 6-Day 5-Verbs to Nouns

Sometimes, I need to take a step back and see if I’m learning. I have a tendency to rush through things – I want to achieve my goals at the expense of doing something useful. I’m one of those people who needs to remind themselves that the journey counts.

As part of my class, we bought a book, called ‘Songwriting without Boundaries’ by Pat Pattison.  I checked for a reading assignment; none was mentioned in the course Introduction. I dug it out and read a section (mostly) on metaphor, which helped. The section suggests writing one sentence and then spending 90 seconds diving into sense-bound writing. I dug right into the sense-bound writing.
Writing metaphors are essential to writing. I haven’t had much practice. Here’s practice:

Day 5 – Working from Verbs to Nouns


The apples squander their seeds.  Clinging like a child who will not let go, the apples rot on the trees, swaying heavily pregnant in the breeze. Worms burrow deep. Birds peck randomly, striking into the core with their deadly fangs.  Arsenic drops black into the green grass. Dogs paw the ground and whine in warning.


Lamps compose stories over the shoulders of the programmer. Black-rimmed glasses advertise the arc of the drama onto the laptop screen. His lungs rise and fall steadily. A rolling ocean of airs fills his shallow lungs.


Kittens trickle out of the blanketed wicker basket. An unsteady line of fur and squeaking in shades of white, orange, and black zig and zag. The runt clamors out, eyes closed, nose leading the troops into uncertainty.

rocking chair/notifies

The rhythmic back and forth sent out Indian smoke signals to the old woman’s cats. Yarn snaked out of her lap into the cotton sack that lay on the floor, needles sticking out. Mint tea steamed out of the ceramic mug on the side table, condensation soaking the coaster.


Clank! A gentle hiss begins to fill the room, pushing away the chill. Heated water playfully falls upwards all over itself to reach the top. Marianne feels sweat form on her brow and removes the cashmere scarf around her neck. The wool peacoat is hung in the closet. Boots are removed and put toes first under the radiator. Ahhh!


With deliberation, pages flutter apart and pause, spilling their darkened innards onto the faux-wood tabletop. Words leap out from the book, waving flags, and screaming for help.


From out of the carpenter’s imagination, an oak jewelry box carves itself. Sawzall and cutting board buzz with excitement as they wait to devour virgin wood. The high squeal of powered metal suddenly turning on shrieks with delight against the remains of the oak tree.


Fifty years of service to Aunt Alice. Unwavering. Claws and paws of Huskies. The shuffled feet of impatient, loud children. The plastic rubber scrape of rubber. The rug withstood it all, a diligent soldier against the feet of foreign invaders. The rug stood ground, deteriorated wool mixing with humidity that sealed it against the wood like glue.


No boring beer bottles or stale mash odor overtaking your nose. No orders for house wine, acidic lemon assaulting your lips. A reinvented rye Manhattan whisks you along your dreams to oblivion, on the gentle seas of alcohol.


The whirl of gears run by order of electricity. The computer raises itself up, presently a blank face to whoever runs its keyboard command central. The captain peers into the darkness, types, and waits. The stench of spent diesel oil fills the room as submarine engines scurry along. To the periscope! Up!


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